Artistic License
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly doubts Sherlock's ability as an artist. How far will he go to prove himself? Sherlolly


The two doctors most important in the life of the world's only consulting detective were sharing coffee and conversation in the path lab at St. Bart's hospital when the aforementioned detective, coat flapping and curls flying, entered with his usual aplomb.

"Greetings, minions!"

"We are nobody's minions, Sherlock," John Watson replied, sounding slightly insulted.

"We sort of are, John," Molly Hooper whispered under her breath as the man joined them.

"So, Sherlock," said minion number one, "Where have you been keeping yourself? Haven't seen you for a few days."

"Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly. Just curious," John said, but Molly disagreed, if only to herself. She had missed him.

"Working a case. Art theft from a small private museum. Almost finished, just a few more days should do it."

The pathologist had been studying him carefully, and had noticed a small dab of some bright yellow substance along the sleeve of his precious Belstaff. "What's on your coat, Sherlock? It looks a bit messy."

The detective looked to where Molly had been pointing, only to exclaim, "Bloody hell! Look at that...my coat...damn…"

"Calm down, Sherlock. What could it be?"

"It's paint, Molly. Bloody yellow oil based paint. From the museum. As part of my cover, I had to sign up for a series of art courses. I sat in today, but I start class tomorrow. Advanced technique and composition," he said as he removed his coat to examine the stain more closely.

"Advanced? Aren't you getting ahead of yourself, Sherlock? Being a bit over confident?" Molly spoke, while John Watson sipped his coffee and studiously ignored her comments. He had learned from experience that challenging Sherlock Holmes self-perceived abilities only led to trouble.

"You doubt that I am capable of holding my own in an advanced oil painting class, Molly?"

"I was only saying that, perhaps, you shouldn't challenge yourself so much," Molly said, trying to back peddle from her comment. "You could become distracted from your investigation…"

"As it happens, the prime subject is the instructor of this particular class. And you needn't be afraid that I will embarrass myself, Dr. Hooper. I am sure that I am proficient enough to…"

"Of course, Sherlock. But sometimes we are not the best judge of our own abilities."

"Enough of this prattle! Do your have a solvent which will work on this stuff, or not? My favorite coat has been defaced!"

Molly was happy enough for the excuse to avoid further conversation, and quickly went in search of a quick fix for the detective's damaged coat sleeve. John was finishing up his cuppa, but had enough courage to ask, "Can you really paint well enough to fake it, Sherlock?"

"Really, John, you doubt me? I'm quite good, actually. I have any number of artistic talents, but I chose to concentrate on my violin, to the exclusion of other endeavors. I find that I can annoy far more people with a squeaky rendition of 'God Save the Queen', than with a badly painted landscape."

John was chuckling as Molly returned and went to work on the coat, but he was aware that Sherlock was still slightly annoyed at the petite woman's lack of faith. And when Sherlock Holmes was annoyed, things tended to happen. Unpleasant things. The doctor felt slightly guilty for leaving his colleague alone to face the consequences, but he had to complete his rounds and get home to his wife and toddler daughter. Muttering farewell, he left the lab.

It was almost two weeks later that John, having not seen his best friend for the better part of a week, decided to drop in to the flat on Baker Street late on a Saturday afternoon. Sherlock had texted him that his latest case had ended successfully, the art instructor had, indeed, been a thief, and his commission for aiding in the recovery of several works had netted him a tidy sum. So he decided to go congratulate the detective in person, maybe share some takeaway, and avoid his cranky, teething toddler, and subsequently even more cranky wife.

The first thing he saw as he entered was a large easel, evidently with a painting mounted on it, but covered with a stained cloth. "What's this then, your art project?"

"Yes."

"May I?" John nodded at the cloth which covered the painting, "Or are you embarrassed to have me see it?"

"No, I suspect it's not I who will be embarrassed, John," Sherlock repled somewhat cryptically. So John removed the cloth, and stared at the art work. And stared. And then stared some more, before finally saying. "You were right, as usual, mate. You really are quite good."

"Thank you."

"Done from memory? Or imagination?"

"A little of both."

"You have quite a vivid imagination, then, mate!" John snickered. "She's going to kill you, you know that, right?"

"I don't really think the violence level will go much beyond her customary slap on the cheek, John."

"I wouldn't bet on that!", the doctor said as he, rather guiltily, studied the portrait before him. It was Molly Hooper. A very underdressed Molly Hooper, in fact, sitting upright on a bed, her body slightly turned to the right as she rested one shoulder on the headboard. One leg was folded under the other, her left leg bent at the knee and resting comfortably on the other. Her left arm was draped over her breast, and in her right hand she was holding a familiar object, the skull from the mantle in the sitting room. She was looking down at it somewhat tenderly. It was a lovely composition, leaving quite a bit, but not everything, to the imagination. One breast was visible through the curtain of her hair, and the curve of her hip gave way to the lovely plumpness of her derriere, seen only in profile. On her left hip, towards the rear, just where it melted into her bum, a small tattoo was visible. A tattoo of a caduceus with a human skull superimposed over it. The symbolism was obvious to anyone who knew Molly Hooper. The staff representing the medical profession, and the skull representing death.

"Sherlock, is that your bed?"

"Very astute, John. What gave it away? The periodic table hanging on the wall behind it?" Sherlock snorted derisively.

"Does Molly really have a tattoo?"

"No comment."

The two men were disturbed by a quick intake of breath behind them, as DI Greg Lestrade joined them. "What the bloody hell, is that Molly?"

"Yes. it is. What are you doing here, Gavin? I wasn't expecting you."

But Greg seemed to be unable to take his eyes off the portrait. "Who's the lucky bloke who painted it, Sherlock?"

"I painted it, Graham. And I am not a lucky bloke. At least not in the respect you intended. It is done purely from imagination. Or almost purely…"

"You have one brilliant imagination, then, Sherlock!"

"So I've been told," the detective retorted, sneering at the shorter doctor.

"Does Molly really have a tattoo?"

"Perhaps you should ask John…" Sherlock said, but before the policeman could do so, John Watson rolled his eyes, and repeated Sherlock words, "No comment!"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock practically had to shout to capture the man's attention. "Why are you here?"

"Ah, well, let me…" Lestrade appeared to take a moment to regather his thoughts, before handing the detective the manila folder he had been holding. "Here, lab results from that case in Liverpool you asked about. I printed them out, and brought them over. Gotta go. I'm late as it is." And with that, the man was gone without further comment about the pinup pathologist.

"So, Sherlock, are you going to tell me how you did that…" John gestured toward the painting. "I mean, it's lovely and all, but how did you know what…"

"I accidently walked in on her in the shower in the locker room at St. Bart's, John. Nothing more, I assure you. And remember, I have an eidetic memory, after all…"

"From which you choose to erase extraneous material, Sherlock. Such as the solar system. But you didn't erase that, did you? I wonder why?" John said with a rather knowing smile. But the detective didn't answer, simply tossing the cloth once again over his masterpiece to go in search of something to eat.

On Monday afternoon, Molly received a text message from Mary Watson, which aroused her curiosity.

HAVE YOU BEEN TO BAKER ST LATELY - MARY

NOT FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS. WHY? - MOLLY

IT SEEMS THE GIT HAS A NEW HOBBY. PAINTING. - MARY

"Oh, so that's it!" Molly thought. "He wants to show me how brilliant he is at yet something else. Show me how wrong I was to doubt his talent. Well, I won't give in to temptation. I won't make a special trip just so he can rub my nose in his superiority!"

But, when she received another text the following day, this one from Mrs. Hudson, she had to admit she was getting very curious, indeed.

I GUESS I WAS WRONG ABOUT HIM AND JOHN AFTER ALL. CONGRATULATIONS! - MARTHA HUDSON

WHAT?! - MOLLY

DON'T WORRY, LUV. I AM THE SOUL OF DISCRETION! - MARTHA HUDSON

Molly was still puzzling over this exchange when she was surprised by the entrance of the Holmes brother she so seldom saw at St. Bart's. She and Mycroft had developed an easy friendship while Sherlock had been away for two years, tending to the eradication Moriarty's network, and they often got together for tea and conversation, although she wasn't sure that Sherlock was privy to this information. The two brothers were seldom on the best of terms, and Molly had not wanted to upset the delicate balance of her relationship with Sherlock by informing him that she found his elder brother to be charming when he wanted to be, efficient when he needed to be, and kind almost all the time.

"Ah, Dr. Hooper, I was just thinking of you, and decided to drop in to bring you this," Mycroft said, presenting her with a steaming container of coffee from her favorite cafe. "Just the way you like it!"

Molly graciously took the container, but eyed the bearer of the gift with suspicion. "Spill it, Mycroft. Why are you really here?"

"Just wondering, Molly. Do you have any tattoos?"

The pathologist was a bit taken aback by the question. "Why? Do you need to update some secret government file on me, or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous! The British government, and by that I mean me, knows everything about you. I was just curious how other parties came to know." Mycroft couldn't help but laugh quietly at the situation, leaving Molly Hooper even more puzzled. "By the way, did my brother ever tell you that he was offered an art scholarship while he was at boarding school. Needless to say, the good behavior required of a scholarship recipient managed to elude him, however.."

"What's going on, Mycroft?"

"I think you are long overdue for a visit to Baker Street, Dr. Hooper," Mycroft smiled enigmatically, and turned to leave. "Do give my brother my regards!" And, as she watched him leave, Molly Hooper decided he was, in fact, correct. So, instead of going home that evening, Molly resolved to pay the unrequited love of her life a supposedly long overdue visit.

When Sherlock opened the door to allow his pathologist entry to his sitting room, she smiled a bit as she immediately surveyed the room as if looking for clues. Everything seemed to be in order. Nothing had changed, except for the cloth covered easel over by the window. Molly approached it, believing that whatever was under the cloth was the cause of everyone's smirking comments for the past few days. "May I?", she asked politely.

"I'd rather you didn't, Molly. It's a work in progress. I think the one you're looking for is in the other room." And with that, Sherlock led the small woman down the hall and into the bedroom. As soon as he turned on the light, Molly saw just what everyone was smirking about. She studied the portrait for a moment or two, before saying, "Yes, I see. You messed up the periodic table, though…"

"Ah, you're the first one who noticed, Dr. Hooper! I just wanted to spell your name with elements forty-six through forty-eight. See? MO, L, LY. I know two out of three of those don't even exist, but I took some license!" The detective was now beside himself. "You know, everyone else seemed to be distracted by…"

"Yes, you git, I can see what they were distracted by! How did you know about the tattoo?"

"I may have, ah, accidently, seen you in the locker room…"

"Oh! And you thought it would be appropriate to display this for everyone?"

"Why not? Nude portraits are quite common…"

"Nude portraits of professional models, or courtesans, or Greek goddesses, or illicit lovers, perhaps, Sherlock Holmes, but certainly not mousy, but well respected, pathologists! Oh, god, how could you put this on public display?"

"It's hardly public, Molly. It's in my bloody bedroom! I moved it from the sitting room to avoid anyone else seeing it! And you're not mousy. Everyone who did see it agreed it was lovely…"

"Did you do this deliberately? To humiliate me because I doubted your talent? And why did you paint me in your bed? Why not, at least, my own…"

"I was working from memory, and, of course, I am more familiar with my own bed, Dr. Hooper…"

"Why in bed at all, in fact. Why not in a classical setting? Floating on clouds? Or raising out of the waves on a clamshell?"

"Well, ah, the muse, you know, inspiration…"

"And why nude, damn it? You couldn't prove what a great artist you are by painting a bloody labcoat, or a my cherry jumper?"

Sherlock Holmes was at a loss. He thought the painting was beautiful, primarily because of his subject. And while he had felt a tinge of, perhaps, jealousy, when he allowed others to see it, he was sure that Molly would like it. She would see what he saw. Her subtle beauty. Her gentle manner. But her manner was far from gentle as she slammed the door as she left the flat.

Molly was halfway home before she realized that she had not broached the subject of what was to be done with the portrait. She would prefer that no one else ever see it. And she would definitely prefer that it not continue to hang in the bedroom of the artist, where he could peruse it at his leisure, and savor his victory. Well, she would deal with that tomorrow when she wasn't so upset. Tonight she would go home, down a bottle of red wine, and hope she'd drown in her own bathtub.

A couple of days passed, and Molly had still not worked up the courage to address the question of the portrait. The thought of it hanging across from where the detective slept, when he did sleep, made her uncomfortable, and until she had her discomfort at a manageable level, she would prefer not to enter negotiations with the world's most annoying man. Unfortunately, that evening, said man showed up at her door. Molly Hooper looked through the peep hole to see Sherlock Holmes standing in her hallway, looking rather sheepish. The fact that he seemed to be holding a large canvas, covered in a cloth, persuaded her to let him in. Perhaps he had seen the error of his ways, and was prepared to turn the painting over to her, to be promptly relegated to the dark recesses of her bedroom closet.

Upon entering her flat, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted before he could get a single word out. "It's alright, Sherlock. I forgive you. Just give me the painting, and we'll forget the whole thing."

It took him only a moment to discern the nature of her mistake. "Molly, I'm afraid you misunderstand. This isn't your portrait. This is something else I have just finished. For you. A companion piece, as it were." Having said this, the detective propped the canvas on a sitting room chair, and removed the cloth covering it with something of a flourish.

The painting was lovely, of course, done in the same style as the other. The setting was the same, but the subject was different. This time it was Sherlock Holmes himself, in the same state of undress, lying on the other side of his own bed, his head covered in messy curls, resting on a pillow, and looking upward to where someone unseen was gazing in his direction. The other half of the periodic table was visible above his side of the bed, and this time the elements which were incorrectly named were numbers thirty-nine, forty, and forty-one, which now spelled out PR, A, T. Which Molly, of course, failed to notice immediately as she, herself, now seemed a bit distracted. Perhaps by the slim but muscled torso and the rather sinewy thighs and bum on display. Had anything else been visible she may have never noticed the table of elements at all!

"I notice you've not put everything on display, you prat!"

"I like to leave a bit of mystery, Dr. Hooper. Gives you something to think about!"

"You're giving this to me, eh? And where am I supposed to hang it, Sherlock?"

"I rather thought your bedroom would be appropriate, Molly. I thought you might enjoy it in there. I know I enjoy looking at yours!" Sherlock Holmes was actually flirting, and even more! "And I rather think it will discourage anyone else from trying to occupy the space, don't you think?"

"Quite possibly. Especially my mother on her next visit!" Molly laughed.

"I hadn't really thought of that, Molly.", Sherlock seemed to think for a moment. "But, surely, you can see from their composition that the two portraits are complementary pieces, meant to be hung side by side. Perhaps by the time your mother plans her next visit, they could be hanging together on Baker Street, with your mother settled into John's old room…"

"It does seem a shame to keep them apart…" she said with an air of surrender, and moved closer to the tall man with the light eyes and the dark hair.

"I agree wholeheartedly," said that man, as he pulled her into his arms for a devastatingly passionate kiss.

But Molly pulled away after what Sherlock considered far too brief a time. "Just one thing, Sherlock. Just how many people now know about my tattoo?"

"Well, let's see, shall we. There's John, who must have told Mary. Lestrade saw it, so I assume that half of New Scotland Yard knows it by now. Perhaps you should check Anderson's blog? And Mrs. Hudson, of course, so that takes care of Baker Street in its entirety. And Mycroft, but he can keep a secret, although I assume he's informed Mummy and Papa. Perhaps you'll make the annual Christmas newsletter? And…" And Molly was giggling, albeit a bit desperately, as Sherlock recounted the entire list as he led her slowly toward her bedroom.


End file.
